Reparation of Sin: A Sovereign Sons Novel

by Zavarelli, A.

  My phone vibrates again, and I sigh, releasing my wife to drag it from my pocket. When I see Marco's name, a cold chill moves over me.

  "Yes?" I answer.

  "Did you get my texts?"

  Texts?

  "Hold on."

  I pull the phone back and click on my messages. There must be at least a dozen updates on the screen regarding my sister’s whereabouts. She's been to the club at the compound. Abel's house. A long list of different hotels around the city. And then finally, there’s a message alerting me that she’s been driving around aimlessly, scanning the streets in areas of high prostitution. At that point, Marco asked me what I wanted him to do, but I was asleep.

  "Where is she now?" I ask.

  "She’s still driving around. Seems to be looking for someone.”

  “Keep following her,” I tell him. “Until further notice, that is your full-time job. Wherever Mercedes goes, you go.”

  24

  Ivy

  If we bring a child into this world together, it should be out of love. Not duty.

  My own words haunt me for days.

  Love. What am I thinking? So much has happened between us. But none of it has anything to do with love.

  I put my hand to the back of my neck to touch the place I know his mark is and I’m more confused than ever.

  “Here you are, dear,” Antonia says, drawing me out of my reverie. She comes around the corner carrying a beautiful cream-colored lightweight coat and helps me put it on.

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling the luxuriously soft fabric. I’m dressed in cream from head to toe, my hair in a pretty twist, the knee-length dress shapeless on purpose. Not that they’d expect me to show yet. I’m grateful I don’t have to wear the dress I was made to wear the last time. The sheath of the accused. I shudder at the memory.

  Santiago comes around the corner looking striking in a charcoal suit stretched tight over broad shoulders and muscular arms. His head is down, eyes locked on whatever it is he’s looking at on his phone. He’s been distracted since the other night. Since Mercedes. He hasn’t said what’s going on, but I’ve hardly seen her since he tore her room apart. All I know is that tensions are still high and I’m not sure brother and sister have seen each other since.

  A man I don’t recognize opens the front door. “Your car is ready, sir,” he says.

  Santiago finishes typing something out and drags his gaze up to me before replying to him. “We’ll be right there,” he says, walking toward me.

  “Where’s Marco?” I ask.

  “Occupied elsewhere.”

  He puts a hand at my back and looks me over. I’m about to ask if he’s occupied with Mercedes but he pulls me to him and kisses my mouth. It’s a deep kiss, sensual and erotic and full of promise and desire.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, and I’m flustered. I look up at him, see him smile and I falter. His kisses affect me physically. It’s the strangest thing. The attraction between us has always been powerful, raw and violent even, but it’s even more so now. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I nod, but anxiety has my stomach in knots. I don’t want to go but I have no choice. The Tribunal will dismiss the charge against me but the thought of being in there again, in that awful building, seeing that scaffold out in the courtyard, it terrifies me.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Santiago says, squeezing my hand. “I’m with you. I will not leave your side.”

  I look up at him, squeeze back, my hands clammy. I nod.

  He pulls me to him and kisses my forehead, holding his lips there for a long moment as his fingers brush the tattoo at the nape of my neck. It’s exposed today at his request. I’m his. He wants The Tribunal to know it. He wants everyone to know it.

  When we step outside, I see the small sports car rather than the Rolls Royce. He opens the passenger side door, and I climb in, realizing he’ll be driving. It would be fun if it was any other occasion.

  Santiago slips into the driver’s seat and seamlessly shifts gears to drive off the property. By the time we arrive at IVI, the sun has set, and the lights cast on the building make it look even more ominous than it must look by daylight. I know the timing is by Santiago’s design. He doesn’t come out in the daytime unless he absolutely must, and The Tribunal has agreed to it. Santiago tucks the keys into his pocket and comes around to help me out of the low sports car.

  We enter the building, and the men who’d escorted me up the last time greet him with reverence. They still barely acknowledge me. Santiago takes my elbow, and we climb the stairs together, the guards following us. I don’t let myself glance out the window. I won’t look.

  Once we stand outside the large wooden doors, Santiago helps me out of my coat and hands it and his to someone standing nearby. A moment later, the doors are opened, and we enter the cavernous, cold room, our footsteps echoing. Santiago’s hand is firm at my back when I draw away, guiding me to stand in the pulpit. I’m surprised and grateful when he steps in beside me, and I realize I’m shaking when he wraps a hand around the back of my neck and leans close to tell me to relax.

  How did I do this that first time around? How did I stand here before these men sitting in their cloaks high above me ready to judge me? How did I do this alone?

  I glance at where Mercedes was sitting that day, her eyes red, skin blotchy from crying, and see Jackson looking at us, expression unreadable.

  When the gavel hits the block, I startle and turn. I listen as The Councilor formally reads the charge of poisoning against me, the way he says my name sending a shiver down my spine.

  I don’t hear much of what he follows up with because I’m too anxious until his final sentence. “In light of new evidence, the charge is dropped and the case against Mrs. De La Rosa dismissed.” I wonder if he’s disappointed by the fact. I get the feeling he is. When he’s finished with the formal statement, he removes his glasses and looks down at me. “You owe Mr. Van Der Smit for that, young lady.”

  I nod, not sure what I’m supposed to say, too nervous to tell them off, tell them that I hadn’t done anything wrong to begin with. That, at the very least, it is they who owe me an apology.

  “Santiago,” one of the other Councilors starts.

  “Councilor,” Santiago says, no note of nerves in his tone. More an irritation. Is he truly not even a little bit intimidated by this?

  “It is troubling that there should be yet another attempt on your life. Have you any intelligence you can lend on the matter?”

  I am confused. A second attempt? I turn to Santiago, but he doesn’t look my way. I do, however, see that tic in his jaw he gets when he’s annoyed.

  “With all due respect, I don’t believe this is the proper forum to discuss that other, separate matter, Councilor.”

  “Very well,” The Councilor says, his irritation seeming to match Santiago’s. “Then I adjourn this session. Mrs. De La Rosa, The Tribunal wishes you a healthy pregnancy. Let us hope you deliver a strong, healthy male heir to carry the De La Rosa line.”

  I nod, feeling heat flush my face.

  “You are free to go.”

  “Thank you,” I say, but it’s drowned out by the sound of the gavel striking the block.

  We remain where we are while the three robed men leave the room. The double doors are then opened, and Santiago leads me out, collecting our coats along the way.

  I feel a physical sense of relief as we descend the stairs but find myself shuddering once more when a light coming on out in the courtyard catches my eye. I glance out the window to see the scaffold has been lit, and several people have gathered.

  My throat goes dry, and I pause. “What’s going to happen?” I ask, going to the window.

  “Nothing you need to see,” Santiago says, taking my hand and walking me the rest of the way down the stairs and back out to our car. He helps me into the passenger side, and this time, I can appreciate it.

  “What is this car?” I ask when he gets in.

  “It's an As
ton Martin.” He pulls out of IVI, and I see the gates close in the side mirror.

  “Can we drive around a little? I don’t want to go home yet. Just have some fun maybe.”

  “Fun?” he asks, almost confused by the word.

  I reach over and put my hand on his thigh. “Fun. It means doing something you enjoy.”

  “I enjoy many things I wouldn’t call fun.”

  I sigh, the relief still a palpable thing. “Please?”

  He glances at me, then back to the road and nods slowly exactly once.

  “Yay! You think I could drive?”

  “Don’t push your luck.”

  * * *

  When we get home late that night, Antonia has an elaborate dinner prepared for us. We sit down to eat, the candles feeling more romantic tonight than before. But as I sip on my half-glass of wine, which he allowed since we know I’m not pregnant, and after The Tribunal, well, I earned it, my mind wanders to our lie. To a few nights ago. To the baby and the reasons for having one.

  If it came down to it, we could say I had a miscarriage as far as IVI is concerned. I’m sure Santiago could pull that off. But there’s so much more going on that I don’t know.

  “Santiago?” I ask when we’re at dessert.

  “Yes?”

  “What did The Councilor mean when he said this was the second attempt on your life?”

  “My, what big ears you have,” he says lightly, but his mood darkens palpably.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s not a matter for you.” He puts his fork down after only having a bite of the chocolate cake and wipes his mouth.

  “Does it have to do with my family?”

  He sits silent, watching me.

  “The other attempt on your life, does it have to do with us? Is it why you hate anyone with the last name Moreno?”

  “Stop, Ivy.”

  “Is it why you chose me?”

  His phone buzzes, and he glances at it. It’s been beside him on the table, but he’s ignored it mostly. He pushes his chair back. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you,” he says, emphasis on the word you.

  “But my family, though?” I remember how he’s accused me of being a Moreno as if it is a horrible thing.

  “Enough.” He stands. “I need to take care of some things, and you need to get to bed. It’s late.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  He glances at the single bite of cake still on my plate. “All right. Finish.”

  I break the piece in half and put one part into my mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me Evangeline had come to see me?” She mentioned it in one of her letters. She’d taken the bus to get here, an hour of travel time, and she’d been turned away at the door.

  He sits back down. “Do I need to remind you of the circumstances?”

  I grit my jaw and cut the other already bite-size piece into an even smaller one. “Can I see her? And my dad?”

  “Not your father.”

  “Why not? What harm could it do? You know now it wasn’t me who tried to kill you. You know someone set me up too. Doesn’t that put us on the same side for once?”

  “That’s enough.” He stands again and pulls out my chair. “Go to bed.”

  “He loved you. Did you know that?”

  There’s that tic again. And a flicker of emotion. “Go to bed, Ivy. Now.”

  “You were like a son to him. His favorite son, in fact. It’s why Abel hates you. I used to be jealous of you, too. Did you know that?”

  He draws in a sharp breath. “Your father did not love me,” he says tightly with an emotion he’s trying to hide. “If you hate him, that’s for different reasons.”

  “Hate him? I don’t hate him. I’m sick with worry for him, and you won’t let me see him, and I don’t understand why.” Now, I stand. “Especially now. After the other night.”

  “The other night? What does the other night have to do with anything?”

  “We talked about a baby.”

  “An heir.”

  “A baby. A life! And you said he’d be loved.”

  “I said I would do what is necessary. I never used the word love. That was you, Ivy.”

  I falter. Did I misread things? The emotion I thought I saw? The connection we’d made?

  His phone vibrates with yet another message, and his expression turns ugly as he replies to it. “Go to your room.” He takes a step to leave.

  “My room. Not yours?”

  He stops, then turns back to me. “I sleep alone. It’s better—”

  “It’s not better. I’m your wife!” I push the chair in, but it catches on the carpet, and I have to pick it up to do it.

  “Ivy, you’re picking a fight. Tonight is not the night. What I meant is—”

  “I can’t live like this. I’m going crazy. My head is spinning. One minute you hold me, make love to me, talk to me about babies. The next, you dismiss me, sending me to my room, not yours. Not ours. You don’t tell me anything even when I’m the one who would have paid the steepest price for what happened to you. You still don’t tell me anything when I know you know much more than you’re letting on, and I have a right to know.”

  “A right?”

  “Yes. A fucking right!”

  “That’s more than enough.” He takes my arm and starts to walk me out of the room. “I’m going to blame the alcohol.”

  “Get off me! I’ll go on my own. I know when I’m not wanted.”

  Without a word and without missing a step, he marches me up the stairs, hand tight around my arm but not bruising. And some part of me knows he’s taking care with me. But it’s not enough.

  When we get to my door, he opens it and releases me only when we’re inside.

  I take two steps away. “Are you going to lock me in? Don’t worry, I won’t try to sneak into your bed!”

  He comes toward me, takes my arms, rubs them as he walks me backward. “Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. Don’t you think I want you in my bed?”

  “No, I don’t.” I shove his hands away, but he traps me between the wall and himself. “You’ve given me every indication that you do not. Except when you want a fuck.”

  “Shh.” He brushes a loose strand of hair back, then dips his forehead to mine. “Are you going to listen?”

  “No.”

  He sighs, drawing back. His phone goes off again, and I can see he wants to look at it.

  “Just go. I don’t want to keep you.” I fold my arms across my chest and look away from him.

  He reads the message on his screen, and I try to catch it, but I only see one word, Mercedes, before he tucks it into his pocket. He looks back up at me.

  “You’re not unwanted,” he says.

  I feel myself soften and my eyes warm with tears.

  “What I meant about my bed is that I have violent dreams. And sometimes, I lash out in my sleep. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.” His thumb comes to the dot of ink from his tattoo gun. I know he feels guilty about that. The tiny but constant reminder of what he almost did to me.

  I want to say something. I want to have some reason to lash out at him, but his sad smile and gentle touch disarm me, and what he’s saying makes sense. He’d been worried about the other night too. Even warned me never to wake him.

  “You won’t hurt me,” I tell him.

  “I won’t take a chance.”

  I exhale, dropping my head.

  He takes my face in his hands and turns it up to his. “All right?”

  I shrug a shoulder, very aware I’m pouting. “Fine.”

  “I’ll arrange for you to visit Colette tomorrow. Would you like that?”

  “Why Colette and not my sister or my father?”

  “Don’t push. Not now. This is what I am offering.”

  “I just don’t understand. We had fun tonight.”

  His phone goes off again. “I need to go. Would you like to visit Colette?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right.” He leans in to k
iss me, but I turn my head away. He clears his throat. “Good night, Ivy.”

  25

  Ivy

  I toss and turn for what feels like hours. Guilt gnaws at me. He was trying. For Santiago. We did have fun tonight, so I shouldn’t have pushed. And he did give me something. He has nightmares. I saw that myself. I want to know what the dreams are. What the cause is. The fire?

  That takes me back to the comment The Councilor had made. A second attempt. That fire was caused by a gas leak. Or at least that’s what the public was told. Is that not the case? Did someone try to kill him and succeed in killing so many others? All Sovereign families. All males. I think it was more than a dozen dead, and I remember my father’s reaction to it. I’d just thought he’d been relieved he wasn’t there but also guilt-ridden that he’d sent Santiago in his place when he’d been too sick to go.

  Is that what this is about? Does he blame my father? Is he punishing me to punish him?

  No. That makes no sense.

  I push the blankets off and get up. I want to go to him. I want to sleep in the same bed as him and feel his arms around me.

  I want to tell him I’m sorry I acted like a brat.

  The house is quiet as I pad down the hallway to his room. Mercedes’s door is hanging at an odd angle. I don’t know which one she moved to, but no one has cleaned this one yet. I bypass hers and get to his. I knock lightly so if he’s asleep I won’t wake him up. I’ll just slip into bed beside him.

  I turn the handle, grateful it’s not locked. But from the dim light in the hallway, I can see he’s not here. His bed is still made. He hasn’t slept in it. The clock by the bed tells me it’s past three in the morning. Is he still up?

  I turn and head down the stairs to his office. It’s the only other place I can think he’d be. And I’m right. I know it before I even reach his door not only from the light coming from beneath it but from the melody streaming out. Something dark I recognize. Mozart’s Requiem. My father loved Mozart, and I remember this piece especially well. The haunting tune, the escalating soprano.